The Science of Deception
by BlinkingAngel
Summary: An alternate ending to The Great Game, and what happens if I ask "what if..." Rated T for very mild language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, I know that I _really_ need to finish Loophole, but this little thought of "what if" popped up, and we all know what that means: Story time! Enjoy!**

John took a deep breath and expertly set his expression, doing his best to raise his heart rate. It had to be convincing. He stepped out of the stall slowly, ready for a show. There he was, Sherlock Holmes, back turned and speaking into the air, holding up the memory stick. John's jaw tightened and he shoved his hands into the pockets of the bulky coat to hide his clenched fists. He swallowed.

"Evening," he said. The detective turned, genuine concern and confusion covering his face. He seemed to be searching for words and John was struggling not to crack a smile. He spoke slowly to convey the illusion that Jim was telling him what to say. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

The bumbling detective finally found his voice, "John, what the hell–"

"Bet you never saw this coming." John bit his lip in order to control himself. Sherlock took a few steps towards him, understanding starting to dawn on his features. At least, he thought he understood.

'Keep up the act, keep up the act' John kept telling himself, he couldn't let Sherlock be the wiser. Had to carry through with the plan. He carefully opened the jacket, exposing a plethora of explosives, a laser sight dancing over the vest. All for show, of course. He resumed talking to stop the grin that teased at his mouth. "What would you like me to make him say next?" Jim always did like having the upper hand, may as well make him happy. The detective continued forward, spinning in circles, looking for him. "Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer" He nearly laughed by the time he finished talking. Sherlock took it as nearly crying, still so ignorant.

"Stop it." he said, still searching for Jim. There's never any appreciation for the people in the background. Even if they do all the work. 'Well be in the background no more,' thought John, 'almost, almost. Just keep talking.' "Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died." John bit hard on his lip, "I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

John barely finished the sentence. It was just so ridiculous! Once he finished talking, a smile finally broke through. The doctor stifled giggles for a second then all but doubled over in laughter. "I'm sorry just can't do this anymore," he managed to blurt in between laughs.

So many emotions passed through Sherlock's features: worry, confusion, surprise, and, was that fear? 'Oh,' John thought, 'this is just too good!' The detective took a few small steps back, "J-John? Are you alright?"

He let himself settle down. "Moriarty!" Sherlock's heart dropped at the name. "You can come out now," John called out while stripping free of the winter jacket and Semtex to reveal a sleek black suit, much different from his usual jumper. He nonchalantly smoothed the fabric and looked Sherlock squarely in the eye, his face finally settling into the dangerous, maniac grin it had been yearning for. He would relish the look on Sherlock's face for a long time.

Another man stepped out of the shadows from the opposite end of the pool. "Come on now," he whined, "I was going to make a dramatic entrance! I had a speech. Hello there, Sherlock."

"Sorry, Jim. I just couldn't keep it up. Did you see his face? Poor Sherly was really worried about me." His voice simply dripped with faux sympathy. Moriarty came to stand just a few feet behind John and Sherlock finally understood. Allowed himself to understand. The man that he trusted, his only friend, was a fake. He had been working with the consulting criminal, leading him on a chase after who turned out to be John's own colleague! Sherlock had allowed himself to be played by an army doctor. But all of the details, all of the times that he'd deduced him, Sherlock could find nothing that would even hint to something like this.

"But I don't understand–" he started, only to be cut off.

"Of course you don't, because you're so THICK!" John suddenly spit the last word in a way that made Sherlock jump inwardly. He tried to seem unfazed.

"I deduced you," he said, reciting his thoughts like he had so many times before. "I knew everything about you, I lived with you for months. It would take a genius to fake all of that."

John simply put his arms out for display. "And what do you see now?"

Sherlock scanned over the man standing before him and within a second had deduced everything about him once again, but what he found was notably not John. No, this was someone else, because Sherlock had gotten to know John Watson, and he was nothing like this.

"I see a man that is not John Watson." he said simply. "A genius, a heartless criminal, and a grade A maniac."

"Good, Sherlock. Very good. You know, Jim never thought it would work. But I always knew you would fall for it, I always knew you were thick. You just had to believe that you had a friend." John slowly sauntered toward Sherlock, who was now the one struggling to be controlled. He was done with the feeling of betrayal, now he was just mad. He was trying not to punch that terrible grin right off his face.

"So you do the background work, is that it? People go to Jim with their problems while you're doing the work." Sherlock said, shoving aside emotions and settling into simple deduction. The only thing he could rely on.

Jim piped up, "Actually, Johnny does all of the people work. He's the actor." John took a shallow bow. "Whereas I do all of the organizing. But we both don't mind a bit of... hands on work every once in a while." The look on Moriarty's face was reminiscent of a panther: sly and quietly dangerous, as if he could pounce at any moment. Both men had now stepped past the discarded bomb and were only a few feet away from either side of the detective.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked. "Why bother?"

"Why does anyone do anything, Sherlock?" Moriarty responded, "Because we're bored."

John joined in, "you aren't the only one that inflicts damage to stave off boredom. We just have better targets than a wall. I'd heard of you and I thought 'hey, why not play with him a bit?' And you were interesting, you really were. But play time's over. Now you're just getting in our way. And believe me you, that is not a good place to stand.

"But I have a problem, Sherlock, because Jimmy here thinks that you're too interesting to kill just yet. I can't say I disagree, but what are we going to do with you?"

"I say we make you dance. Play with your head a bit. I've got tons in store for you up here" Jim tapped his temple. He turned to fully look at John, "what do you think? Shall we?" Sherlock's hand twitched towards the gun in his pocket.

"I think so." Watson replied, then turned back to Sherlock. "I look forward to meeting you again, my friend." he said with a wink. In a wonder of synchronization, John gave a small nod and kicked the vest into the pool and before Sherlock could react, Moriarty had pulled out a handgun and shot it. There was a small pause in which both men gave a small wave conveying something along the lines of "Ta!" There was a dull noise, and then a much louder boom as the explosion surfaced, filling the air with mist. Sherlock was momentarily disoriented and the concussion knocked him off his feet on the slick tile.

By the time all of the water had fallen, which, granted, didn't take long, Sherlock was standing with his gun at the ready in trembling hands. But both of his enemies were already gone.

**A/N2: If your mouth is hanging open, I have done well. I feel delightfully evil for posting this. Please review and tell me what you thought! Thanks for reading! Ta!**

**-BAngel**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I am utterly ashamed with myself. Please don't hate me for the direction that this fic is going to take. It's not my fault, it's those darn consulting criminals!**

**Anyway, I did not originally want this to be any more than a one-shot, but with the way my mind works, no stone can be left unturned. So, therefore, I started halfheartedly writing a second chapter. I was probably not going to post it, but in light of recent events (thanks to Harry-Potter-Addict-dA) my mind was changed. And now, without further adieu, I give you the second chapter of The Science of Deception!**

Sherlock didn't do much in months following the incident at the pool. Of course, there was always the crime fighting, the deducting, the running, but in Sherlock's world, all of that was just a day job. The equivalent of sitting at a desk all day. The detective did almost nothing at all outside his 'work' ever since he'd lost his flatmate. He simply sat in his chair or stared blankly out the window. On occasion, he'd play a haunting tune on his violin, but usually he'd just stare into the distance at nothing in particular, lost somewhere in his mind. He tried to replace or completely delete all of his memories of John before that point, but found this an impossible task. The man had crawled silently into Sherlock's mind palace and woven himself into every detail. To delete John would be to crumble his entire sanity.

Instead, Sherlock found himself sifting through every single detail of John's projected personality. He'd re-lived every waking moment. From meeting John for the first time in the lab at Bart's, right down to the maniacal look on his face just before being obscured by a wall of mist.

How could he have been so thick? Looking back, Sherlock could find nothing even hinting to a ruse. Could John have been that great of an actor? Given, Moriarty had fooled Sherlock at first, dating Molly as "Jim from IT". It was just a matter of placing evidence where it could be deduced. The two consulting criminals were inside his mind. He didn't like it one bit.

He ran into a bit of the partners' consulting work in this time, but never a personal encounter. Sherlock had almost let himself believe that he'd seen the last of them. That is, until returning to Baker Street after a particularly tasking serial killing case (the first victim's sister-in-law did it) to find a swatch of red cloth hanging on the door handle to 221B. Sherlock noticed this immediately upon climbing the stairs. Upon further inspection, he found that it was fashioned into a small sachet that held biscuit crumbs. Additionally, he noticed that the cloth was not, in fact, red, but white and stained with blood.

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><p>"Jiiiim, this is getting boring again!" a man complained.<p>

Moriarty didn't bother spinning his chair around, he would know this voice anywhere. He simply smiled, "Well," he said to the man, "what do you propose we do?"

"You did mention something about 'burning'..." he began, unable to control the excited quiver in his voice.

"Yes, I've been trying to come up with something good. Dramatic, clever, entertaining, ...scarring. Did you have something in mind?" He finally turned the chair to look at his black-clad companion leaning against the nearest wall of their hideout (a surprisingly cozy abandoned storage building. Essentially a large concrete room adorned with random furniture).

He crossed his arms and nonchalantly said, "Little Red Riding Hood".

Jim quirked up an eyebrow, prompting for more information.

"Little Red goes into the woods to bring a basket of sweets to her grandmother and meets a wolf on the way. She tells him her intentions without knowing just how dangerous he is. Being more clever, the wolf gets there first and eats Granny. Little Red doesn't know of the danger she's in until it's too late and she's eaten too." By this point, Jim was very interested. He leant forward in his chair, elbows on knees, and was listening intently. "So just replace eaten with tortured, wolf with, of course, you and I, Little Red, that's Sherlock, and Granny, the sweet old landlady that he so loves."

Jim grinned wildly, seeing the whole plan perfectly. "Sometimes, I wonder why I'm not the one working for you."

The man pushed himself away from the wall and pulled the crisp, white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, unfolding it in front of him with a simple flick of the wrist, "Let's go catch us a Granny."

**A/N2: I AM NOT A PSYCHOPATH, I SWEAR! I do not, however, make any excuses for those two ^. I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, but nevertheless, please review! You will recieve a hypothetical cookie baked fresh from the hypothetical ovens of Moriarty!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm vaguely disappointed. I didn't get a single review in the last chapter. A few alerts and favorites (thank you to those who did), but not a single review! Oh well. Nonetheless, here's chapter three. Let's go for at least one review this time!**

**Disclaimer:**

**1. Despite the contents of the following chapter, I am completely mentally stable for all intents and purposes.**

**2. I own none of the genius that is the world of Sherlock Holmes, ACD or otherwise.**

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><p>Mrs. Hudson relaxed in her sitting room enjoying a nice morning cuppa. She left unwatched reality television softly playing in the background in place of company; Sherlock was out on yet another horrible case and she just couldn't stand the silence that had set in after John left. <em>Sherlock must've driven him away,<em> she mused_, pity, he was such a polite young man._

A rapping rang through the halls. The landlady took one more sip of tea before making her way to the door. One young man in a nice suit stood on the doorstep.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said with a half grin. Mrs. Hudson noted a slightly Irish accent. "Might I come in?"

She noticed something odd about this man. Something not quite right. Ever so politely, she asked, "Well, what for?"

He stalked forward a half step. "I have some business dealing with Sherlock Holmes. May I come in?" he asked again, more slowly this time.

His proximity made Mrs. Hudson quite uncomfortable. She backed slightly away. "I-I'm afraid he isn't in at the moment."

"Oh," he said, the half-grin growing wider and more sly, "That won't be necissary." He slowly advanced as he spoke, forcing her back into the flat. The details were a bit of a blur considering how fast things happened, but Mrs. Hudson distinctly saw the man pull a thick, damp cloth from his pocket. He swiftly grabbed her and covered her nose and mouth with the cloth, muffling her cries for help as the room reeled and faded to nothingness.

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><p>Furious could not begin to describe what Sherlock felt. Torturing Sherlock himself would be one thing, but this crossed a line. A great, thick hypothetical line marked "DO NOT CROSS" in big red letters. He had no time to waste. The detective paced across the flat, unable to sit still as he pieced together the meager clues. They had obviously taken Mrs. Hudson and undoubtedly had her somewhere tied to a chair. While most of his brain was focused on finding that place, there was a small part in the back of his mind plotting what he would do to them when he got there. One particular Shakespeare quote came to mind: "I'll deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways." It seemed appropriate.<p>

I took him no more than thirty minutes to pinpoint the exact location. His deductions led him to an old storage building. He wasted no time in catching a cab there.

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><p>Mrs. Hudson slowly gained consciousness, yet could not quite account for all of her senses. Her entire body was numb, her vision blurred, her ears ringing, her nose and mouth assaulted with strong qualities of metal. She attempted to more fully open her eyes only to be blinded by a bright overhead lamp. She tried to take stock of where she was without looking around. Moving about, she found her hands and feet bound to a chair. How had she gotten here? She thought back, with difficulty, to this morning. Was it this morning? She didn't know how long she'd been unconcious. Either way, the last thing she could recall was having her morning tea...<p>

Then she remembered: the man. The soft Irish voice insisting to come inside. He must've drugged her, brought her here. Why?

Mrs. Hudson snapped her head up, only to be met with a nausiating dizzyness. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her head back down to wait for the dizzyness to pass. She then tried again, much more slowly. She stared forward waiting for her vision to adjust. She found herself sitting in the middle of a small room made entirely of mirrors. The endless reflexions bouncing off each other gave the whole place a mirrage-like quality. She stared intently through the reflective glass and, sure enough, saw two shilouettes vaguely outlined. She was being watched.

"H-hello?" she stammered with a hoarse voice. "I know you're out there!" She tried to sound brave, but was unable to completely mask the tremor in her voice. She saw one of the shilouettes move, but was unable to follow it with the reflections throwing off her focus.

An unprecievable door swung open in the corner of the room and in walked the very same lizzard-faced man who had shown up on her doorstep. He turned his sly half-grin on her. "What do you want, sweetheart?"

"Wh-Who are you? Where am I? What are you doing this for?" The questions simply flowed from her mouth without permission.

"One question at a time, thanks. Jim Moriarty, pleased to meet you. Though, you've probably heard of me."

She had, in fact, but she couldn't quite recall from where. She did, however, know that when she'd heard the name, it hadn't been corralated with anything good. He continued, wandering in a slow circle around the chair. "As to where you are, I'm afraid that that's classified. And why are you here, you ask?" he was now directly behind Mrs. Hudson's chair, leaning in so close that she could smell the peppermint on his breath. "Because I'm bored," he whispered in such a way that made her shudder and swallow a whimper of fear. Jim continued on his path around the chair. "And I'm sure that Sherlock will be here any moment now to 'come to your rescue'. Until then," he pointed to the corner of the room at a surveilence camera, "sit tight and smile pretty." With that, the invisible door again swung open and Moriarty exited as swiftly as he came.

Mrs. Hudson glanced up at the camera before again dropping her head to subdue the new wave of nausia, squeezing a tear through squinted eyelids.

**A/N2: I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! Please to review anyway *hopeful smile*? I love you all.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: sorry this one took a bit longer, I wanted to plan ahead a bit more before posting it. Anyway, enjoy. I OWN NOTHING. **

Sherlock sat restlessly in the cab. He could tell that he was making the cabbie nervous, but he didn't care. His mind was completely focused and he would not allow himself to think of anything else. His mobile quietly buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a message from an "unknown" number. He, however, knew very well who it was from. The message read simply:

"Come out and play. Oh dear, dear. She doesn't look too good does she?"

Attached was a video of, just as Sherlock had expected, Mrs. Hudson bound to a chair in the center of a small room made of mirrors. There was no sound, but he saw her restlessly yelling at some invisible presence. OOne wway mmirrors, he deduced. She suddenly stopped and turned her head away from the camera, leaning back as much as the chair would allow. A blonde and black suited man walked into the frame, head angled carefully so that Sherlock could not see his face in the endless reflections. Upon reaching Mrs. Hudson's chair, he roughly grabbed her chin and forced her head up to look at him.

He probably said something to her, though Sherlock couldn't tell. Mrs. Hudson did not respond and the man promptly whipped the back of his hand across her face. Her face fell and he noticed a drop on blood drip to her white skirt. Sherlock could feel a white hot rage start to bubble up inside him. This was obviously not Moriarty, so it must be—

Just as Sherlock thought this, the man lifted his head to grin into the camera through the opposite mirror. Sure enough, Sherlock saw the familiar face of John Watson. Familiar, yet not, for there was a sinister mask carved into his features.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white from involuntarily grasping the cab door.

"You alright back there, mate?" The cabbie called back, obviously unsettled.

Sherlock managed to quietly reply through clenched teeth "just drive a bit faster."

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><p>Upon arriving at the dilapidated building, Sherlock hurled the fare at the cabbie and took off toward the worn and rusted door. He tried forcing it open and, finding it sealed shut with rust (obviously not the entrance they used/), ended up kicking it in.

He took a few cautious steps into the large space. The vast, empty, concrete room. /Empty/. He'd gotten the wrong building. But how? All signs pointed here. Sherlock's mobile buzzed before he could further process his incorrectness. He whipped it out to see another message from the "unknown" number.

"Tick tock, Sherly. We're getting bored."

Attached was another picture of the mirror room that was quickly becoming familiar. Mrs. Hudson sat in the center, bound as before with the addition of a gag made from an off-white cloth. She was slumped over as far as the restraints would allow, looking painfully hopeless and defeated.

Sherlock then noticed through the reflective wall the other change to the scene: a small black pack attached to the back of the chair. Knowing the Consulting Criminal, this was an explosive. Just enough to obliterate the chair with the poor landlady in it, yet not enough to injure the two men outside the small room. /Clever/ Sherlock thought, before pushing the thought away and focusing on the task at hand.

If not here, then where?

**A/N2: Dun dun dunnnnnn! Sorry it's a bit short, no other good place to stop. Please to review I love you all!**


	5. Chapter 5

"What are we going to do with her if he doesn't show up, boss?" He asked tentatively. Moriarty sat with his back to him, that familiar dangerous and focused look about him; head slightly bowed and resting on interlocked fingers.

"Hmm?" Jim droned, uninterested.

"What if Sherlock doesn't come?" he repeated.

Jim's head leaned slightly to the side. His heavy lidded, thoughtful expression could be seen in the reflection of the glass. "I never bluff. You know this. The best way to win is to have your name strike fear into the hearts of anyone unlucky enough to know who you are. This doesn't allow room for bluffing. If Sherlock doesn't show, I press this little button," he caressed the single-buttoned remote in his hand, "and the old hag's no more. Why do you ask?" He now turned to face his colleague and cocked up an eyebrow, "You're not feeling sympathetic, are you? Might I remind you: this was your idea."

The other man shifted uncomfortably under Moriarty's harsh glare. "I just — never mind."

"You just what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." He said, suddenly defensive.

Jim repeated, more slowly, dangerously, leaning in, "You. Just. What?"

The other man didn't respond. What could he say? That he felt bad for tying up an innocent old woman? That he was having second thoughts about his plan? That he cared? Of course not! So what if they were true? He knew that if he told Jim this, he'd be killed on the spot, or dropped in a ditch in the middle of nowhere, or any other of the countless ways to dispose of him that the consulting criminal could concoct. No longer of use, but knowing too much. So he just stayed quiet, doing his best to look unfazed.

Jim snorted and spun his chair back around to face the glass box, reassuming his previous posture. "I knew staying with that detective would be bad for you. You've developed feelings. 'Caring is not an advantage,' he always says, yet he's the most guilty culprit. You see the effects of empathy? It's sent Sherlock on a wild goose chase just to save this little old lady. And now you. It's made you feel _sympathy_. And here I thought you were the hardened soldier. You shouldn't care. Caring is _not_ an advantage."

He said nothing as Jim went back to focusing solely on the defeated figure before him and unconsciously stroking the control. He obviously enjoyed holding another's life in his hands.

There was a long lapse in actual conversation among the consulting criminals for quite some time afterwards. They had moved to opposite sides of the box in order to continue this lapse. Fear of Jim Moriarty is not a rare state, but when he is annoyed, it's simply best to keep one's distance.

Jim had begun to grow bored of the monochromatic-ness of his hostage's dress (rather, the lack of red) when he heard it. A cab door slamming, nearly inaudibly, outside the warehouse. A grin stretched across his face and he stood to face the doorway. His sniper, noticing as well, appeared just behind and to the left of him, his favorite gun in hand.

Sherlock swung open the door with ease and sauntered in. He nonchalantly stepped toward the criminals, assembled in such a way as to display the bloodied and defeated figure behind them. Seeing Mrs. Hudson like this in person sent a pang through Sherlock's chest, though he daren't show it.

"Jim," he said as greeting, nodding towards Moriarty.

"Sherlock."

The detective faced his old flat mate without a word.

"Evening, Mr. Holmes. Long time no see." Seeing that he likely would not need it, he dropped the long rifle to his side and leant against it like that blasted cane he had to carry around after the war.

"A long time indeed. Time enough for me to think. You of all people know how I love to think." Sherlock's eyes hardened as he stared at the man. "My mind kept jumping to the same thing: 'Why?'. Because, you see, John Watson was a trustworthy army man."

The sniper in question interrupted, "Oh you're not on that again. You really are a dunce aren't you? I told you flat-out: John Watson isn't the man you think. You were wrong and you're still wrong. You just don't get it do you?"

"Drop the speech, I wasn't done. I was never wrong about John Watson. He existed." Sherlock let lose a single laugh, "He existed, and I was right about every aspect. He came back to London after the war with nothing to do, nowhere to go home to, no one who could help. Until a certain consulting criminal came along. Offered him a new name, a new job, a new life, in exchange for his service as a hit man, no questions asked. You did a very good job, you really did. Hiding in plain sight, oldest trick in the book. John Watson doesn't exist anymore. Instead, who stands here is none other than Sebastian Moran."

Moran cracked a smile and stood, slinging the rifle over his shoulder in order to saunter toward the detective. "Well played. To tell you the truth, I thought you'd never figure it out. I guess I underestimated you." The gun was now righted, aimed directly at Sherlock's heart. "I'm terribly sorry, you were a wonderful playing piece, but we simply can't have you walking about with this information. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." With a smile, Moran set his sights and squeezed the trigger.

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><p>Mrs. Hudson sat slumped helplessly against her bindings, silently sobbing for loss of hope, when she heard the door again quietly slide open. She swallowed her tears and squeezed her eyes shut, not bothering to look up at her captor. "What now? What are you going to do with me now? Beat me? Drug me again? Bloody me up just to have some fun? Just skip the speech and get it over with quickly."<p>

She heard a few footsteps coming towards her and prepared for the worst. She cowered into the chair and tensed for the incoming blow...

But none came. She still daren't open her eyes, but relaxed slightly. Then, to her utmost surprise and confusion, she heard a painfully familiar, deep voice saying, "Actually, I've just come to take you home."

**A/N: Hi all! It's been far too long, hasn't it? The length really doesn't make up for it either. Sorry about that. The characters were being painfully lazy. Nevertheless, please review! I love to hear what you think! I do believe we're finally nearing an end!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I am very very very sorry for how long it took me to upload this. School started up and sports and after school activities and homework and I'm sorry. I've composed a truly quality (at least I hope so) final chapter for you all to make up for it. Enjoy!**

_Moran set his sights and squeezed the trigger._

Sherlock made no discernible move, not a flutter of an eyelash, as a loud bang and a puff of smoke were emitted from Moran's long barrel. His rifle stayed in the air as Sherlock appeared unharmed and Moriarty furrowed his brow.

The detective let out a low snort. "One blank bullet in a single load gun," was all he said to address the odd situation before continuing. "You know, Mr. Moran or Watson or whoever you've decided to be, deduction is actually quite easy to reverse-engineer, but kinks kinks kinks," he said wagging his finger, "There are always kinks. An amateur, naturally, would present many more than a genius, but a genius presents some all the same. Originally, I was under the misconception that no traces had been left, leading me to believe that there was no deception. What I did not notice, though, was that while there was no slip in your 'actor' facade, there was, however, the slightest of slips in your guise of a hit man."

At this, Moriarty's head did a lizzard-like twist-and-tilt, peering - glaring rather - at Sherlock through heavily lidded eyes; simultaneously making him appear both dangerous and interested. Moran's gun lowered slightly, revealing his visage of thinly masked confusion. Sherlock carried on.

"Living as my flat mate for some time, you, as I'm sure Jim here has noted, had re-developed some of the empathy lost to you in Afghanistan. Not all too surprising, that. After months of shooting at men with children and families and being shot at in return, one tends to lose sight of what compassion feels like. Then, after returning to London, you are assigned to live with me and are shown... to some extent... caring. You had started to doubt your work for Moriarty, you liked the feeling of having a... friendship again. That was the kink. You started to care. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there is some advantage to be found."

By this point, Moran had lowered his rifle almost to the floor. Instead of addressing Sherlock's speech, he chose to begin with his preliminary statement. "How did you know that my gun wouldn't fire. I just opened a brand new pack of bullets and I was sure that they were all active."

"Ah, I'm glad you asked." Sherlock responded with a smug grin. "During our time together, I'd noticed that you are one to quickly pick up and keep habits. First off, you always purchase ammunition from a circuit of twelve vendors. One pack each time, so as not to arouse suspicion. All I had to do was make a little investment in my 'underground investigative team' to uncover the pattern and which you would be going to this time. Secondly, being a military man and hit man, you have seen more than a few packs of ammunition in your day, naturally picking up a habit here as well. From examining your pistol ammunition case, I noticed that you always remove bullets first from the top left snaking left to right, right to left, until the box is empty. From there, it was no far reach to plant a blank bullet in the box of bullets that I convinced your vendor to sell to you next. Simple."

As Moran opened his mouth for a rebuttal, a gun was fired. Four shots, the first to his chest, causing a morbid cough of blood, the second and third to each thigh, knocking the man to his knees, and finally a round found its way to his skull, finally and thoroughly finishing the job. Sherlock stared incredulously at the bloody mess that was previously John Watson/Sebastien Moran briefly before looking up into the stone cold, reptilian face of Jim Moriarty. After searching for words for several seconds, Sherlock managed a pitiful "what did you do that for?!"

Moriarty simply smiled and lowered his weapon. "I had to get rid of him" he said simply. "Someone who will be tricked and go soft so easily does not deserve to work for me. He knew too much to simply be let go, so I had to kill him. Pity, he did have quite the drive, and I was beginning to think that he liked our arrangement." He shrugged with his hand out to his sides, pistol hanging precariously on a palm. "But oh well."

"You didn't have to make him suffer." Sherlock said coldly.

Moriarty took on a childish tone "Well it was only for fun. Sorry I killed your date."  
>He decided to disregard that statement. "I assume that you're going to let me go." It wasn't a question.<p>

"Well of course. I haven't had quite enough time to play with you yet. So I'll let you take your little lady and head off. You'll be hearing from me again." With that, he walked away, leaving behind his former companion in a pool of his own blood.

Sherlock waited until he heard the heavy metal door slam shut to let out a huff of air. He looked down at the body in remorse. He'd really hoped to win back the John Watson that he knew. It wasn't until he actually saw his body, his only friend dead at his feet, that he finally realized how much he cared for John. As a friend, a companion, a confidant. A pain set in that likely would not soon fade away.

Now to the poor trapped woman in the glass room. Sherlock slowly swung open the glass door and found himself in the infinitely reflective room he'd seen in the pictures. His gaze then swept to the poor, wretched, defeated Mrs. Hudson slumped against her bindings in a small chair in the center of the room. She sobbed silently and tears fell to her already damp lap. The pain he felt witnessing her condition was comparable to seeing his dead friend outside. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson had taken note of his arrival.

"What now?" she croaked "What are you going to do with me now? Beat me? Drug me again? Bloody me up just to have some fun? Just skip the speech and get it over with quickly." Her words put a lump in the back of Sherlock's throat. With all the gunshots, she must've thought that her only hope had been killed just short of saving her.

He cautiously stepped forward. She cowered into her chair, anticipating another beating. Sherlock squatted in front of her and said, smoothly and calmly as he could manage, "Actually, I've just come to take you home."

**A/N2: Yay! Happy(ish) ending! I'm sorry for killing John. Blame Moriarty.**

**Thank you all so much for riding along with my madness and (hopefully) forgiving me for the painfully irregular posts. I'm currently working on a new fic, if that helps anything.**

**I love you all. Please review and tell me what you thought. This, officially, is the end of The Science of Deception.**

**Farewell and happy FanFicing,  
>BAngel<strong>


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